The recent spate of kolachi-baking has led to thoughts of my Polish gramdma, the only relative I ever truly loved. She baked me things. She spoke hardly any English. What's not to love?
According to our parents, Grandma was in a perpetual state of dying. Every Easter, we made the trip to her decrepit neighborhood in Sharon, PA because "Your grandmother is getting old. This is probably her last Easter. Get your butt in the car." I heard that speech only a half dozen times, but my older siblings claim that that it went on for decades.
And so after the long drive, we would arrive at grandma's house and trudge single-file up the stairs to her back door, lining up to receive the worst part of the trip: sloppy old-person kisses on the mouth. Grandma would be cooking in her kitchen, see us, and spring to action, her gelatinous lips coming at us like flapping gator jaws.
"Linda!" she would greet the oldest. "You too skeeny!" Smooch.
"Mort! You too skeeny!" Smooch.
"Nadine! You too skeeny!" Smooch.
"Julie! You too skeeny!" Smooch.
"John...you look good." Smooch.
Christ, I've got to lose some weight, I'd think.
Our interactions were mostly over a card table. We played a lot of a card game called "Casino," which most of my girlfriends have been forced to learn since. The beauty, of course, was that a limited vocabulary was needed. What little Polish I know is all card terminology.
"It's going to be mine."
"You're out of turn."
"Suck it, Grandma."
Even at 212, Grandma was a sharp player, and one day when she was soundly thrashing us, I got frustrated and went to watch TV. My dad appeared five minutes into The Price Is Right. "Your grandmother isn't going to be around much longer," he said. "You sure you don't want to play cards with her?"
Groaning, I got up and got my ass soundly pummeled some more. Grandma was elated. Cackling, even. And then the very next day, she died.
We were back in Columbus when the news came. I remember Mort grumbling about having to do that drive again, but I was focused on my near miss. I had narrowly avoided guilt of epic proportions.
They asked me to be a pall-bearer, which in retrospect seems an unusual request of an 11 year-old, but I was honored. And so we carried her casket from the hearse to the church where she'd spent so much of her time. Where she'd been when her heart finally gave out. None of us were surprised she'd died there. She very nearly lived there, no doubt praying about her grandchildren's eating disorders and for her endless streak of hot cards to continue unabated.
Holy shit, look at those stairs. There were a couple dozen of them leading up into the church. My skinny 11 year-old arms strained beneath the torque of the coffin, until finally they could take it no more. I dropped my corner. We heard a dull ker-THUNK inside the casket. We looked at one another, horrified.
I'd evaded epic guilt for three days. It was a nice run.